Often I’m asked why I’m so adamant about the work I do —
guiding women back to their passions, their dreams, and most of all, their relationship with their own soul.
This true story — about me and a movie called Same Time Next Year — will shed some light on how I came to this mission.
It all begins in Sand Springs, OKlahoma, a little town 7 miles Northwest of Tulsa. It was 1978. I had one child — she was three.
I was all of twenty-three years old, already five years into my marriage to the preacher-man. My life was nothing but a daily to-do list of what I should do, what I might do —never, ever what I wanted to do. Wanting for myself would have been unforgivable.
The Sand Springs Women’s Club — a local ladies’ group — had it written into their charter that all ministers’ wives were automatic members.
So. I went. ONCE.
The one time I chose to attend their gathering — the one time —
happened to be the day they were all going to see a newly released movie at the theater: Same Time Next Year.
Thank goodness.
At least I got to see a movie. Because I knew — knew — I could not sit in someone’s perfectly decorated parlor, nibbling petit fours off a china plate with a lace napkin on my lap, pretending to belong.
As it turns out, that movie launched the beginning of my thirst to understand life. And that’s not nothing. After all — I was a preacher’s wife, wasn’t I?
According to everyone else, we preacher’s wives were supposed to have it all together. We were supposed to know about life.
Not hardly.
Not at all.
Especially not at twenty-three.
All I can say is — thank goodness for that movie.
Because it cracked open everything for me.